


innocence died screaming, honey ask me i should know

by ollie_outie



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bloodplay, Corruption, F/M, Kurloz is creepy and Meulin wants to make him worse, Religious Fanaticism, Xenotheology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ollie_outie/pseuds/ollie_outie
Summary: It's obligation to paint, you know and cherish this fact, the creation and metaphorical carnage the faith demands of your caste. But consumption like you're tempted you've seen no mention of, and there's little doubt in you that any word you do find would get at allowing this maybesin
Relationships: Meulin Leijon/Kurloz Makara
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	innocence died screaming, honey ask me i should know

**Author's Note:**

> if you ever wanna talk about these weirdos or request a fic, feel free to hit up [@clown-of-madness](https://clown-of-madness.tumblr.com/)

It's a holy day amongst your brothers and sisters, meant for rest and paint and the jubilation members of the caste are not usually allowed, so concerned you all are with culling and providing. There's no doubt living in you that tonight the halls of your cathedral, usually so lonely bleak as to make you feel like a ghost when you travel them at day, will be filled with screams and the loud honking laughs your aurals equally adore and loathe. Right now though, now you are resting well as you're able, hands curled lazy around your little kitty's hips, claws picking at her sweater. She's practically purring for you, head tucked up next to your own, fronds tugging so gentle through your beakbeast nest of hair, separating out it's knots and smoothing down curls til it's near enough to straight and settled. It feels routine, almost. Meulin will pull you off to a block and take to grooming you, any time it suits her pusher or she senses you need the time away, time alone with your lovely heart and her miraculous fucking fingers.  
She turns some, brushing her fangs against your pulse and breathing a sigh so you shudder out a quiet laugh. She doesn't nip, knows her bounds and what still lays beyond them right now, but the kiss she lays on you is sweet as sin, trails it up your throat and meets your mouth with a shy smile.  
"Purrloz," her tone is a mite more unsure than you like to hear from her and you can't barely help but to curl your claws deeper into her sides, hoping to reassure her, "Can we spend the night together?"  
You open your mouth to remind her of the day, of your duties and pleasures as a member of the church, but she shushes you soft, "I know it's a holiday, but it's not major, and it's been forever since we've had more than a couple hours together," She lays her palm against your pusher, pouting at you. "I miss you, Kurloz, purrlease just stay with me fur a bit?"  
You're faithful all through your core, been steeped in the love and wrath of your Messiahs since hatching, but fuck if you ain't also a mortal and so full up of pity for the troll in your lap. You smile at her and nod, using your grip on her hips to pull her to your chest, know she realizes the care your actions are meant to convey and breathe deep as you think about what this means for your night.  
Sermons are a nightly practice, and today isn't high ranking enough that you would worry about missing a special speaker. Your pan will appreciate the break from the noise you were expecting, peace is a rarity and you must always cherish it. Painting is something you'll miss, spending time with your precious matesprit. That, that you'll miss any opportunity to paint and feel the way it slides sweet and satisfying in a way you ain't at all able to pinpoint against your flesh, that has you wondering already if you regret agreeing to stay.  
Your fronds travel restless across the expanse of Meulin's back, rub small cycles and pick pinprick holes into her sweater before she seems to tire of your bullshit and stretches up to strip it off, letting you see her bare chested and not caring at all.  
"I wanna relax with you," she says, "There's nothing happening right now that we can't do later, ok? Settle yourself, mister busy body."  
You still for a precious few moments, hands and mind quiet. But the thought of paint now summoned won't leave you, images of rainbows spread across blocks with careful hands appear, and you can't help the longing it inspires.  
Your devotion has always been a warring thing, faith and quadrants both holding your pusher in steady harsh grips that you can never break nor weigh above the other. Meulin is something you cherish utmost, but your Messiahs hold you just as rapt. Meulin gives you the world, pities you sure and sweet and never let's that fact escape you. Faith, church has given you family, though, family and purpose and _bright colors smeared on walls, you can barely reach three feet high but you had found the vats, all full up of the most miraculous hues and the need to drag frond through them, to cover the block in rainbows and words was so strong you felt it rock all through the teeny husk your body made_.  
Fingers knock against your nugbone, "No, bad mime. It's time to relax, nyaot think loud enough fur the deaf to hear." Meulin frowns at you, eyes more worried than upset despite her tone, "What have mew got rattling around in there, huh Purrloz?"  
"Just thoughts, kitten" You reply, snatching her fingers to hold in your own.  
"Thoughts about what, though?" She turns your hand over, playing with your palm and digging claws in the soft flesh of your fingers where they joint, feeling the way bones move against one another and how far she can pull them before you hiss. "You know you can tell me anything, I won't ever judge you, Lozzy."  
You hum at her, watching your fingers, the way she dissects your skeleton through flesh, and wonder. She's twisted up, your matesprit is. Places impulse over safety and has morbid curiosity for every sick thing she encounters. You wonder, and you speak, "You know, kitten, that paint is made with intentional resemblance to blood. It's our essence, troll boiled down and spat out into dull color and slick texture." She nods along, your girl understands church, though trail and error have proven she ain't got interest in converting. "It's a holy act, spilling blood. Holy and something mere troll ain't got right to do, not without the best of reasons."  
"Neither hunger nor want merit the pain of another troll, no matter how crazed and aching that want may prove."  
"Kurloz," she stops you, "Dollface, what do you want right now?" Her tone is indulgent, she thinks your desire is simple to sate, sees you not as a creature but simply her too faithful heart.  
She only watches your mouth open and close while you try to answer. You're not shy, never are and especially not with your flushmate, but still you hesitate. "I want," You say, clear as your unsure voice can get forced into sounding "I want to paint."  
She nods, sure and quick like you're only saying as she expected. "Cut me, then."  
You want your movements to be unsure, wish for your claws to tremble as they dig into her back and _pull, make her spill every last drop so finally you'll be done, you'll be painted in her life and it'll be the sweetest of miracles and you can REST_ , but cutting your precious mate is simple, methodic. Her flesh splits for you easy, green slipping over your fingers and down her body, and you feel yourself relax with the familiar feeling of paint _blood_ covering your fronds.  
You roll her under you, straddling her waist and digging into her soft belly, the soft slopes of her hips, watching green spill into little rivets that flow down her sides onto your pile. It's perfect, you love your kitten so dearly, and perhaps love the relief of blood on your hands only slightly more.  
You stretch above her still straddling her hips, unwilling to stop touching, _distance yourself from your pallette, make scratching her to ribbons even the slightest bit harder, you can't bare to be away from the pitiful, wretched mess under you._ You can slide your claws over the blocks nearest wall, painting on it a smile and a simple word, and you are calm. You lay back beside her, careful of her injuries, and place a kiss upon her lips. She's smiling, a lazy, pleased thing that shows off the smallest points of her fangs. She's gorgeous, always has been, and the cuts scoring across her stomach only make her more beautiful, _holy, pitiful_. The pile beneath you is tacky warm with blood, it's the strangest comfort and you dream for a second of having your bright green sopor replaced with olive.  
The air smells like thick copper, and you wonder at how long it took you to notice, at how much time was spent drawing blood and laying in it before your snuffnodes caught on. No part of you can recount the scent, though you've doubtless encountered it often, fond of claws and teeth you and your matesprit are. Perhaps it's the new intent that makes it smell strange to you. Blood before was spilt in equal passion, pity, and lust, but here you sought to rend Meulin for your own desire and naught much else. You ponder if the intent changes flavor, as well. If the copper and stardust scent means that her blood would taste just as strange.  
You stop.  
You think.  
It's obligation to paint, you know and cherish this fact, the creation and metaphorical carnage the faith demands of your caste. But consumption like you're tempted you've seen no mention of, and there's little doubt in you that any word you do find would get at allowing this maybesin.  
Green is painted on your fronds and staining the undersides of your claws, deep olive and more beautiful than anything so troll has right to be. Meulin lays back for you so calmly, trusting of you and the leash your pity proves. Her arms rest crossed under her head, chest down to her hips barred as a canvas. A multitude of scattered lines marr her, stain her smooth grey with unholy blood. _No brother, paint, paint and a feast_. For a second you feel your fangs ache to tear and rend, suddenly you're starving and she's the most delicious thing to ever be sculpted by the sisters own hands, she's bright and holy and _you need her inside you, keep her safe and tear her to shreds, purify her rot with your blood and breath, hold this fragile love up to your Messiahs and know she is worthy_.  
You blink, and she's mortal again. Flesh again.  
She's still bleeding, too. Sluggish now, you scratch deep but let it never be said that your kittybitch ain't sturdy. Watching her, you drag claws over the largest cut, collecting a shitbit of blood, _paint_ , on your digits to lap up. It's sweet, almost, not like faygo or sugar but still, under the copper and musk it's almost candy-like.  
Meulin looks at you curious, neither judging nor overly interested in your actions, eyes lazy and only tensing slightly when you dig your claws deeper into her flesh to draw out more blood. She makes a pleased sound when you duck your head down to lick at her wounds, instinct and your own pity soft hums saying to her _you're being cared for_ relaxing her further under you.  
It's when you nip that she moves, hand digging into your hair, neither pulling nor pushing, just touching. When you look up, her face is tipped back and eyes closed, lower lip just barely breaking under the pressure of her fangs where she bites herself. Another gentle nip earns you a tug, slowly leading you further up her body so your boney chest rests against her rumblespheres and your fronds are planted on either side of her stomach for balance. She presses your face against her arched neck, mouth planted firm on her pulse "Bite," she orders, and you always oblige your kitten.  
Blood, you think, tastes so much richer when your fangs are yet buried in flesh. Meulin already runs so much hotter than you, barely saltblooded as you are and green as she is, her blood is almost like to scald your tongue. It's disgusting, amazing, the most grotesque pleasure you've ever allowed yourself and you for a second dig your fangs in deeper when Meulin finally seeks to pull you away from her. When you release her it's with a handful of shy, gentle licks, trying to clean the sluggish blood flow and apologize with the action.  
She uses her gentle grip on your mane to turn your gaze toward herself and looks up at you above her with a devotion and hunger you adore and fear in equal measure. "Now," her voice is breathy and pleased, "Sit still," is all the warning you're granted before she bites harsh into your collar, jerking her head some before stilling. When you lay a fingertip against her throat you can feel her swallow; a soft, rhythmic movement. She pulls away from you on her own, _you wouldn't push her away, sweetest little sister could drink til she was filled and you were but a husk and you would never ask her to let go_ , purple dripping from her lips and smiling at you like a giddy grub.  
"Meulin, wicked little love of mine," You say, voice high and reedy like it hasn't been since before you joined the church, since before you molted and found your family, "What was that."  
She blinks all slow and fond at you, "It was fun, Lozzy," and tucks you back against her, close to the bite so you can smell copper and stardust as you finally come to rest.


End file.
